


fandom_stocking contribution: Firefly (Mal/Simon II)

by recrudescence



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prostate exam. In space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fandom_stocking contribution: Firefly (Mal/Simon II)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a trope, but it's a fun one.

A spoiled Core boy, taking orders from nobody. Too imperious to bend over for anyone’s whim. Giving commands and being obeyed, just the way he was raised. That's all, just some fancy slip of a thing with soft palms and white skin and ludicrous clothes, but he carries himself like that makes him _important_. Used to holding himself together under pressure, being in charge, taking control. And it'd be funny if he weren't very much _in_ control as he prods gloved fingers over Mal’s ribs, eases his mouth open and quiets his tongue with one of those depressors that makes _anyone_ look like an idiot.

The captainy part of him, which is also _most_ of him, resents that. Among other things.

Blue-tinged fluorescence of the infirmary lights throwing shadows and angles over the doctor’s face. Just a physical after being in that diseased settlement; he’d given one to Zoe and Jayne already and it’s odd to think of those quick white hands touching his first mate. Even odder to think of them on Jayne.

“Jayne didn’t complain half as much as you,” Simon mentions, as if on cue. “He mostly just pouted. Now will you please lie back and let me examine you?”

The thing is, that just makes Mal's face want to push into a pout—or some authoritative, manly equivalent—anyway. But Simon doesn't spare him a glance, just gets down to business and narrates every step in what's probably supposed to be a soothing, put-the-surly-_hundan_-at-ease kind of way. Kneading along the sides of his neck to check for tenderness and tapping his knees for reflexes and listening to his heart with a chilled stethoscope that makes him twitch and his cock twitch, and Simon, rather than leaving him some dignity other than his suddenly very inadequate underwear, only warms the metal and touches him again.

“It’s perfectly natural,” he says, without a hint of a blush, and _that_ just makes Mal hate him even more. If anyone's meant to get flustered, it's not supposed to be _him_. Too bad watching Simon pull his fish-out-of-water routine only works when he's actually _out_ of water.

“Is all this strictly necessary? _Doctor_?” This is making every last incident with Saffron feel like a stroll through the cherry blossoms, in retrospect. It can't be a good sign that he's wondering if maybe sleeping with his estranged wife when he had the chance might've taken the edge off and saved him from the situation he's in now. Probably not. And what's that supposed to indicate?

Simon doesn't answer with anything but a mild, “Turn over, please,” and instead of swearing or refusing or just straight-up staring at him moronically, Mal does. His face is feeling too hot to be healthy and it won't do him any favors to have Simon picking up on that, too.

Bent at the waist, elbows to the table, ass in the air, Simon humming and circling a slick, capable fingertip against the tight-clenched opening to his body, pressing lubricant inside before entering him. Mal feeling like he’s on display, naked and unable to see Simon’s face, but maybe that's for the better. “There’s going to be a little pressure. Please tell me if you feel any pain.”

It's a thought that gets dragged ruthlessly from the realms of _maybe_ into _definitely, definitely for the better_, thanks to having him there murmuring things like, “that’s good” and “doing fine” and “does this feel all right?” until Mal clamps his teeth together firmly enough to send shards of pain searing through his jaw and comes in hot bursts all over the table. The one he's crushed himself up against it to try and not make a fool of himself. _Yep_, sighs a long-suffering voice in the back of his brain, _that went well_.

Still shaking, still slick-spread and vulnerable, and Simon just calmly fingering him there, like he could do it all night. Prodding at that spot inside him that makes everything go dizzy, feeling himself stretched around the width of that latex-covered finger, loosening up for more. Takes just the tiniest mental step to imagining the feel of another finger slipping inside him as he’s recovering from his orgasm, and he hisses quietly, clenching in response to the intrusion, and it's like his body's fighting to get hard all rutting _over_ again even though his brain is somewhere between mortification and disbelief. And Simon could fuck him like that until he is, squirming and ready and aching for it a second time, till he's gasping and red-leaking and shoving back for _more_ of it. _Could_.

When that hand eases back instead, it makes his legs feel disconcertingly trembly and the first fully-formed question that pops into Mal's mind is, _did he do **this** to **Jayne**_?

When he dredges up the coordination to turn back around, Simon smiles at him, neatly stripping his hands bare and leaving Mal unable to take his eyes off them for a good several seconds. “You see?” The doc passes over his shirt and Mal can't for the life of him remember how to put it on. “I told you it wouldn’t be that bad.”


End file.
